


Close Shave

by freakylemurcat



Series: Complicity [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Beards, Cardigans, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, should have called this the cardigan chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve never met you with a beard before.” Bond stroked both hands down the Q's chin and smiled wickedly. “I’ve got to admit, it tempts me to do terrible things to you.”</p>
<p>“My mere existence makes you want to do terrible things to me,” said Q, quirking his wide lips. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Shave

Argentina lasted a long time, and Bond was glad to be back in England. The place was cold and damp and drizzly in only a way England could be, but Bond stepped out of arrivals area at Heathrow, flipped his collar up to protect from some of the cold and smiled contentedly to himself.

With a small measure of hope, he peered up and down the line of taxis and waiting cars, but there was no familiar number plate in the line and no one had been waiting for him inside the terminal.

“Charming.” No one had come to collect him. He chose a taxi at the head of the line and directed them to Vauxhall Station. From there he bounded across to the SIS building, spent a few minutes arguing familiarly with the security guards – you punch one of them in a fit of mission-induced pique and that was the end of your ease of access – and finally found himself in Moneypenny’s office.

“He’s waiting for you.” She was unwrapping a deli sandwich one handed and sipping from a cup of coffee in her other hand. Bond thought she looks suspiciously amused, and paused for a moment to glare at her, until she waved him away.

His debriefing with M was dull, but mercifully brief, and he barely got told off at all for blowing up that embassy. He did have to explain _why_ he was in the _French_ embassy, but M seemed pleased it wasn’t the British one for once, and Bond was sent on his way to return his equipment to Q branch.

Moneypenny had wolfed most of her sandwich by the time he re-emerged, and she smiled at him again.

“Q branch?” she asked, innocently.

“Yes?” He paused at the other side of her desk and gave her another suspicious look.

She popped a crumb into her mouth and smiled, face 00-agent blank. Sometimes Bond regretted encouraging her to desk work – she did have a certain flair for it on occasions. “You should probably get down there quickly. Before someone else snaps up our quartermaster in your prolonged absence.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed immediately, ever protective of Q. “What do you mean?”

The woman shrugged and cupped her hands around her coffee cup. “I couldn’t deprive you of the surprise. On your way, Mr Bond.”

He twitched an eyebrow at her, but she gave him a sweet smile, and he went on his way. Banter with Moneypenny was an excellent past time, but if there was something interesting about Q to discover then he would happily tear himself away.

 

* * *

 

Q branch was deep in the belly of the building, surrounded by huge air vents and great columns of reinforced concrete and steel for the inevitable occasion when something exploded, and James knew the path down there like the back of his hand. The lower corridors were populated thickly with various nerdy looking people, often carrying heavy loads of shrapnel or flashing tablets as they trotted somewhere else. James weaved between them expertly, pushing through the doors to the cyber security department and crossing to Q’s personal office.

The quartermaster was working at his desk, his back to the door – James had badgered him long and hard, to little avail, to change the layout of his office so he couldn’t be so easily snuck up on – and he barely glanced around when the agent entered.

  
“Good afternoon, double-oh-seven.” Q tapped a few keys on his laptop distractedly. His profusion of dark hair was longer than when James had left, trailing below the collar of his cardigan and shirt, and starting to curl into thick waves. James’ hands itched to sink into that mop, to drag the man’s head this way and that as he would assault that lovely long, slender neck. He was so lost in his thoughts of what he was going to do to his quartermaster, given half a chance, that Q had lost patience. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

He had swivelled on his heel, peering over the heavy rims of his glasses at the 00-agent standing in the doorway, and James realised immediately what Eve had meant.

Q pressed his glasses back up his nose and smiled at James, who still found himself frozen in the doorway. The quartermaster’s normally stubbled chin was no longer just stubbled, but grown into a fully-fledged beard and moustache. It made him look oddly older, not quite matching with his cardigan and bird’s nest hairstyle combo, but it was amazingly attractive.

“Let’s see the damage this time.” Q held out his hands, long fingers crooking beckoningly and Bond obediently un-holstered his gun and pried his earpiece out. He’d even  managed to save his tiepin camera and the neat little lock picking pen that Q had given him as a consolation prize for not giving him an exploding pen instead. He placed them all lovingly in Q’s outstretched hands, trailing his fingers along the young man’s thumbs to see the spark in the other man’s eyes. “Not  bad at all. A full retinue.”

“I do have my moments,” said James, grimacing as Q moved away and his fingers itched to rub along that beard. Fuck, he hadn’t realised he had a thing for beards – certainly the few men he’d been with had all been clean shaven, and Q had never grown more than thick stubble before – but now his hands ached to stroke the man’s cheeks. “You look different.”

“Oh, you think?” Q rolled him a wryly amused gaze and went back to logging his gadgets back into his system. “My razor broke, and you took yours with you.”

“So you became a hobo?” teasedJames, grinning as Q’s typing ceased abruptly and he was gifted with a new, unimpressed look. The beard and moustache was of a style that indicated he might not have had a proper razor, but he had certainly spent a large amount of time trimming it to a careful shape. “It doesn’t quite match the glasses.”

Q tutted exasperatedly, striking one last keystroke and shutting his laptop. James rounded the table, just in case the quartermaster decided to punch him, and smiled winningly until the young man tutted again in a fonder fashion, and whipped his thick-rimmed glasses off.

James’s smile died immediately: Q without his glasses on was all wicked smiles and glinting, if distinctly astigmatic, eyes, but Q without his glasses and a beard was a fabulous sight indeed, remarkably suave and incredibly handsome. Only when Bond realised his quartermaster was starting to look worried did he bring his smile back in full force and paced around the table to loom up into his personal space.

“It suits you though.” He kicked the door shut and took Q by the hips, backing him against the desk. “I do approve.”

“Well, god knows I can’t live without your approval,” said Q, smart mouthed to the last. James kissed him, grinning as the man’s new beard scratched his chin, and then backed away to stroke the hair in question. “Have you never met a man with a beard before?”

“I’ve never met _you_ with a beard before.” He stroked both hands down the man’s chin and smiled wickedly. “I’ve got to admit, it tempts me to do terrible things to you.”

“My mere existence makes you want to do terrible things to me,” said Q, quirking his wide lips. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

James scoffed and leant in to press another kiss to that quirk. “Can I persuade you to go home early tonight?”

After a quick check of his laptop, Q shrugged in that coy way of his that meant he certainly would be, given half a chance. For all the accusations he levelled at James of being a horny bastard, he was just as bad and rarely passed up a chance for a good fuck.

With a purred grumble, James wrapped his hands back around Q’s skinny waist and set to kissing him thoroughly again, just so the man would know what he was returning to that evening. It had been a month or so now, and there had been no femme fatales in Argentina that James had enjoyed seducing. There was no one out there that Bond enjoyed seducing as much as he did Q; not that Q really required much seduction.

“All right, I’ll come home early,” murmured Q after a series of blistering kisses that had made him tense and shiver in James’ grip. “I’ll even bring champagne.”

“You are eager to have me home!”

“More a celebration of getting my kit back in one piece.” Q would have stuck his tongue out, if he hadn’t known James would have bitten him for his cheekiness. “Bugger off now, or I’ll never get my work done.”

James bit him anyway for that, once on the throat, just where his beard tailed to an end, and then sloped off. He made sure to pause in the doorway and corrected the fit of his suit jacket – Q’s gaze was hot on his back, and when Bond gave him a brief backwards glance, the quartermaster had put his glasses back on to have a better focus. James twitched an eyebrow at him and headed on his way.

 

* * *

 

 

Q’s flat was by now James’ flat. He had died too many times for MI6 to bother with getting him a replacement every time, and it was nice to be able to go home to someone every so often. There was enough space for the pair of them to sprawl out comfortably, and since they were so rarely ever at home they never got in each other’s way.

And Q was in love with the agent, which made it even nicer to go home to him because James certainly felt a great deal of affection to the young man in return. Perhaps he wasn’t all the way to love yet – he certainly had struggled with the definition of what exactly he felt for the quartermaster – but he definitely liked Q very, very much.  

James showered and cleaned the mess Q always generated  when he was away on a mission, brewed himself a nice strong cup of coffee and almost immediately fell asleep on the sofa with one of Q’s dire superhero movies playing on the TV.

When James awoke, Q was perched on the coffee table and trying to hide a yawn behind his hands as the DVD player disgorged a disc. Rolling his shoulders, James eased himself up from his slouch and reached for his coffee cup – he’d only got halfway down its contents and now the rest was cold and sludge like in texture.

“What time is it?” he asked, smirking when Q jumped slightly. “Is it late?”

“You don’t trust me very much,” said Q, getting down on his knees to replace the disc into its case. James enjoyed the sight of those woefully patterned trousers stretched smooth over that very lovely arse just for a moment, and then hauled himself fully upright. “It’s only five o’clock.”

“You’ve managed a nine to five working day.” He smiled as the young man hopped up onto his feet and prowled casually into the reach of Bond’s grasp, gasping like he hadn’t intended the result  when James grabbed him about the waist and tugged him in close. “I feel like I should be proud.”

“Bugger off,” scoffed Q, rasping his jawline against Bond’s. “How was Argentina?”

Bond reluctantly cast his mind back and said, “Surprisingly cool. Could I persuade Q-branch to issue scarves when I’m on my way to a cold country?”

Q chuckled, fingers playing with the collar of James’ soft old shirt. “I’m sure there’s some way you would like me to weaponise it.”

“Preferably no garrottes that close to my throat.” He nuzzled Q’s bearded chin again, deciding he liked the scratch against his skin. His hands drifted naturally to the beard again, stroking his thumbs along with the growth, and smiling when Q inclined his head into the touch. A month was a long time apart when they’d been so ensconced in their little domestic life beforehand – this was what James had always feared when they’d fallen into this weird little relationship, that having to leave its safety  would be so difficult.

“You’re moping,” said Q. “Stop it and just kiss me. We can mope later, after we’ve fucked.”

James Bond was ever obedient to his quartermaster. He kissed him hard, grinning happily as his recently shaved skin rasped against Q’s beard, tearing one of his hands away from the beard to tangle in Q’s thick hair. This, as he had imagined, served as a perfect, natural handhold for James to tug Q’s head this way and that. He licked and laved trails down that slender throat, biting hard at pulse points and rasping his cheek against the stubble until his skin throbbed.

He pushed Q down onto the sofa, kneeling careful in between long legs and nuzzling just beneath Q’s chin as the young man’s hands drifted up to scratch at his scalp and slide down under the collar of his shirt. James made swift work of the cardigan and set about the tie and shirt – rumpled as ever, because Q couldn’t keep any of his clothes pressed for any length of time – rucking them down to the quartermaster’s elbows to keep his arms pinned down. He kissed down the centre of the man’s chest and belly, until he reached the start of the wisps of black hair that marked the trail down to below his belt, and then worked his way back up.

His fingers fanned along ribs, callouses making Q shudder and wriggle against the fabric holding his arms back, and then, just to compound the young man’s problems, he laved his tongue lightly over a nipple. Q arched his back and swore, cursing more extremely when Bond blew a light breeze over the nub to harden it further. He swapped attentions to the other side, nipping at this one as Q panted and yelped; this time he worked until the young man began to grind his hips up in desperation, locking one long leg over the back of the older man’s thighs to get some leverage. Then he was able to draw back and raise his mouth to kiss the desperate noises out of Q’s mouth, tormenting his nipples still with calloused fingers.

“James…” Q hissed, grinding his hips up pointedly. Bond chuckled deeply, and sat back up peel his lover out of his trousers. The pattern really was tragic, but it did helpfully highlight the straining bulge at the front of his trousers, which James bowed his head to briefly mouth his cock through his briefs. Q swore and pushed his hips up eagerly, but James trailed his mouth down onto slim thigh and whipped the trousers off his quartermaster sharply. The briefs – covered in Batman symbols today – followed slowly, so James could enjoy the moment.

The young man’s cock was fully hard and standing proud from the curls between his legs, and Bond kissed the tip delicately, just to drive his lover into a few more helpless paroxysms when he didn’t take him into his mouth immediately.

“Bastard!” 

“You rude little sod,” said James, giving Q’s cock a slow stroke. “Learn to ask nicely.”

“Fuck you,” sang Q, flipping James off with both hands. There really was no response to that, so James kept up the slow, unpredictable pattern of strokes, tightening and loosening his grip at counter purposes to what Q was begging for in the end.

“Ask nicely,” said James again, injecting a little steel into his voice. Immediately Q growled out a plea for more, for _anything_ , for fucking _something,_ and James let him squirm for a few moments more before he bowed his head and swallowed the man’s cock in one. He always had liked to suck cock, and Q’s prick always fitted nicely in his mouth and his body reacted so prettily to the attention. He thrashed and whimpered, hips jerking up until James leant a heavy hand onto his stomach to hold him down.

Under his ministrations, Q’s body had arched like a bow even against the restraining hand Bond kept on his belly. James cast his gaze up as he licked smoothly over the thick vein on the underside of Q’s cock, and smirked to see his lover left in such a state. He didn’t want to finish this encounter too soon, as much as he loved watching the quartermaster driven to orgasm, so he crawled back up over the slim body and lowered himself down carefully; Q’s legs raised to bracket James’ thighs again and Bond grumbled in pleasure at how well his body fitted against the quartermaster’s.

“And you call me a bloody tease,” gasped Q, hips stuttering up against Bond’s and biting his lips at the friction of his cock against the agent’s trousers. James kissed him hard to shut him up, and then relaxed into a much more careful embrace, begging for access into Q’s mouth as the young man undulated under his bigger form. Q tasted pleasantly of Earl Grey and the smear of lip balm on a cold-cracked lip, and his hands wandered familiarly across the bulk of James’ back as they kissed.

Q would have been an excellent pickpocket – and for all Bond knew about the man’s past, perhaps he had been – for he had lifted the travel packet of lube and the condom that James had hidden in his trouser pockets like a professional thief, all swift hands and distracting mannerisms. He waved the packets in front of James’ face and grinned invitingly: James was an utter sucker for that look

All the flight home, with a few glasses of scotch and a much needed blanket to throw over his lap, Bond had imagined their first shag reunited. He had planned to lay the man down on their bed and take him apart slowly and thoroughly, until he was utterly addled and begging for James cock or fingers or mouth to take him to completion. But that bloody beard had got the agent revved up all too soon; Q’s delightful responses to James’ touch and his willingness to submit to his partner’s odd obsession with his scruff only wearing the agent’s patience even thinner. And Q was already naked and his willing, clever hands were urging James up, unbuckling his belt and undoing his flies.

They’d go slow the next time, James decided, swinging himself off Q momentarily to shed his trousers and briefs, cursing when Q slid off the sofa and onto his knees at Bond’s feet, the lube and condoms abandoned briefly on the coffee table.

“Fuck. Q…” He tangled his right hand in those thick curls again, as wide lips stretched over his already aching cock. Q had a devilish, wicked mouth and he always out it to best use – his tongue swirled about the head, flickering briefly over the slit in that way that made Bond’s thighs clench , one hand cupping his balls as those lips slid further down. He knew Bond’s cock perfectly, and teased sensitive veins and hummed lowly over his mouthful until the older man’s grasp in his hair was almost pulling strands out. He pulled off Bond’s cock with an obscene slurp – shivers coursed the bigger man’s spine – and mouthed kisses to his inner thighs, beard scratching softly ay the sensitive skin. The sensation was new, but pleasant, and Bond directed that eager mouth to his balls instead, shuddering again at the soft rasp of chin and cheek on delicate skin. He made the mistake of looking down just as Q glanced up, dark eyes all butter wouldn’t melt even as he stretched his mouth full with James’ cock again. The beard only made him look more suave and sophisticated, not just a pretty young thing willing to get to his knees for Bond’s cock, but a pretty young sophisticate, desperate for a thick cock.

“On the sofa,” Bond grunted, tugging hard on Q’s hair again. “Move your pretty little arse.”

Q clung onto his shoulders, mouth locked on a light scar at the side of James’ throat as he got the quartermaster arranged how he wanted him: on his back, a couch cushion under his hips and three lubed fingers shoved up his arse. James twisted his wrist to get the right angle and rubbed firmly over the spot that made Q lose his mind slightly every time. This time was no different; his mouth went lax in pleasure, head dropping back with a dull thud against the sofa arm, fingers digging into the bulk of Bond’s shoulders and legs tensing hard. James waited, slowly working his fingers over that sweet spot as his only concession to his original plans, until Q choked out a lovely, desperate demand.

“James!” He almost sobbed, eyes screwed tight shut. “Fuck me now!” He choked again as the fingers were withdrawn, but James’ had the head of his slicked, rubbered-up cock teasing the furled rim of his hole in short order. “James!”

Q sounded hungry, eyes flashing open fierce and wide mouth curling into a desperate pout. James could resist no more, and pressed in, torn between watching his thick cock sink into the young man’s perfect body and watching his smart, handsome man gasp and grimace over taking him. For the sake of that beard, James watched his face, twitching his hips in and out almost as soon as his balls bump the sweet curve of his lover’s arse. Q only clung harder to James’ shoulders, tilting his hips up and bit more so that when James sank down so the length of their torsos touched, their bellies ground against the slickly pearling length of Q’s cock.

James took Q’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his beard against, one briefly slipping down to rest on his stubbled throat; a warm weight that Q arched his slender neck up under. James rolled his hips a few time until he was sure Q’s cock was as achingly hard as his own was, and then he  began to thrust. His thighs worked hard, his hips slapping to Q’s legs and the quartermaster had to stop scrabbling for a grip on his sweat slicked back and brace himself against the arm of the sofa under the force of the fuck.

Aside from the gasping, heaving breaths they both drew, and the wet sounds of their bodies moving together, neither of them made much sound. James was too desperate to bury himself in that slick heat to trust his voice, and Q no longer appeared capable of words, only yelping sobs when James’ thrusts ground home against his prostate. The younger man slipped one of his hands between them, fingers scratching down James’ belly, and it only took him three sharp jerks of his cock before he came.

 James kissed him then, rubbing his hands firmly against the beard, and fucked him harder until the sofa creaked and thudded alarmingly and his hips ached with the force he was using. Q had his eyes shut, but he opened them briefly as James ran his thumb over that pouty lower lip, sliding the digit in for a wide tongue to lap over hungrily. The slick digit leaves wet trails on Q’s beard, and James ducked the head to the side of his lover’s own as his orgasm loomed. The scratch of the beard against his own sore cheek was the last straw, and James came with a low snarl, turning his head and biting sharply at Q’s throat.

 

* * *

 

Blood welled into James’ mouth and he lapped it away with soft lips and a lazy tongue as his body came down from the bright lights of his orgasm. Underneath him, Q’s body was still racked with brief shudders, and James himself felt like he had electricity scouring under his skin. He licked the bite wounds again and cleared his throat.

“I may have broken the skin.”

“Vampire,” said Q, voice weak. “Always knew you couldn’t be natural.”

James kissed  the marks his teeth had made again, and said, “The beard hides it well.”

“Guess, I’ll be keeping it for a while longer then.” Q draped his hands over Bond’s shoulders again, one slick with his own come and trailing messy patterns on James’ back. Retrospectively, Bond considered they had probably made a fair mess of the sofa, and there were only so many times you could flip a couch cushion. He would get up and get them both to bed, but his heart was still pounding, his hips didn’t want to move and Q seemed content to lie beneath him still. He snugged his cheek tight to Q’s own and muttered affectionate words for his quartermaster’s ears only. Q purred back in kind, sweet voice regaining clarity as he spoke.

Eventually James’ pulse was no longer roaring in his ears and the sofa was starting to seem a cold and inhospitable place. Grudgingly they slid apart – James knotting the condom off and staggering to the kitchen to dispose of it. Resting on the countertop is a bottle of expensive champagne, cooling in a bucket of melting ice, and a couple of champagne flutes. He gathered them up and followed Q to the bedroom, where the quartermaster pretended to be in awe of Bond’s champagne opening skills with only a minimum of sarcasm and then accepted a neatly filled glass.

He waited patiently until James had filled his own glass and chinked them together. “I _am_ glad you’re home, by the way. I’m not entirely heartless once you’ve finished ravaging me.”

Bond chuckled and kissed him briefly before he let them both sip their champagne. “Glad to be home, Q.”

**Author's Note:**

> Watched Richard II the other week, and, while the drapes didn’t particularly suit Mr Whishaw, the beard certainly did. So, hey, beard!porn.
> 
> Should be a chaptered 5+1 piece about feelings and post it notes coming soon, and then more porn. My version of this ship has a 3 to 1 porn to feelings ratio that must be maintained at all times. 
> 
> (Also, I have no apologies for the pun-tastic title. None, I say!)


End file.
